


After The Rain

by lizardwriter



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-18
Updated: 2010-11-18
Packaged: 2017-12-11 16:23:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizardwriter/pseuds/lizardwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Series 4 - Effy goes to visit a friend's grave. Follows canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After The Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in memory of a childhood friend of mine and her sister who died in a car crash in Nigeria. May they rest in peace.

The rain doesn’t let up, not that she expects it to. It wouldn’t really be Bristol if it weren’t raining.

It’s been two years since she’s walked these streets, and even longer since she’s been to where she’s headed now.

Her eyes stay low, watching the raindrops splash into puddles on the pavement as her feet slap, one after the other onto the ground. She’s only walked this exact path once before, but she’ll never forget it. Not in a million years. There’s no need for her to look up and check her surroundings.

Things are different now, though, than they were that last time. The last time she walked this way, she could barely support her own weight, staring at the passing ground, leaning heavily on Katie and Tony who flanked her sides. Today she walks alone, though it’s by her own insistence. She needs to say a few things, to see him on her own first.

She turns at the gates and walks on, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain hitting her umbrella. It’s oddly comforting. She knows that rain depresses some people, but to her it’s different. Sometimes it’s almost fun and freeing, like when she just stands and looks up, feeling the drops on her face, throwing her arms out and spinning around. Sometimes it’s just appropriate, somber, fitting the occasion. This is one of those times.

She veers off the path when she gets close, weaving through the slabs of stone of varying heights, some crumbling from age and wear from the weather, other’s still shiny in their newness, all blanketed in wet from the rain. She stops when she’s reached the one she’s here to see. This one’s still new, well-tended, the petals on fresh flowers leaning against it drooping under the weight of the raindrops.

She traces her finger along the top of the cold, gray stone, unsure of exactly what to say now that she’s actually here. She kneels beside it, sitting back on her heels and letting her fingers run over the letters there, ignoring the way the water from the soaked ground immediately seeps into her jeans. She had things to say. She’d thought them through, planned them, practiced them in her head even, but now that she’s here, she’s not sure any of what she has to say is necessary or relevant.

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihe raji’un,” she remembers the expression she heard while travelling in Egypt meaning “To Allah we belong, and to him we will return.” She doesn’t know why, exactly, but she feels the need to say it, so she murmurs it under her breath, here, in this Anglican cemetery in Bristol, to this boy she once knew. Not the most fitting saying, perhaps, but it brings a wistful smile to her face, nonetheless.

She sits there in silence, readjusting slightly as a dull ache settles into her legs, her hand still resting on the stone, her fingers growing numb and cold as the rain drips down it, so that there’s no discernable temperature difference between them and the stone. She feels a hot tear trickle down her cheek, and blinks, sending another one after it. She wipes it away with the hand still holding the umbrella, making it jerk and letting droplets of rain fall on her head.

It’s a quiet cry she indulges in, the violent sobs and uncontrollable shaking ended long ago. It takes a while, and she allows herself that while, but she eventually composes herself, and then she’s just sitting there.

The rain sounds like it’s letting up, reducing to a drizzle, and she leans back against the tombstone, finally ready to talk. “Hey, Freds.”

\--

She chats for a while, letting the words flow, catching him up on the goings on in her life. She tells him of her time in the hospital, of the therapist that finally helped her through the dark times following his death. She tells him of her trip to Greece to clear her head, and how it led to a trip to Morocco, and from there on to Egypt, then South Africa, and eventually New Zealand where she’d spent a year in a small town just outside of Christchurch. She’d liked it there, really found herself, one could say. She’d spent a lot of time on the beach, watching the water, looking out at the vastness and the beauty of what surrounded her.

She tells him about the first boy she loved after him: a young man from Spain doing a year abroad in New Zealand. Freddie would have liked him, she knows. He treated her well, and their split had been amicable, coming to a natural end when he’d gone home to Mallorca.

She tells him of London, where she’s settled, for now, with hopes of someday making it back to Christchurch. She elaborates on the job she’s found, wedding photographer, leading her to work a lot with Katie Fitch, actually. She’d thought it was amusing when she’d first got the gig, thinking it a temporary job until she found something she liked better, something she was better suited for. In the end, she’d found she loved it: taking snapshots in time, helping people remember forever the moments that mean the most to them. The candid pictures always turned out to be the best, the ones the couples loved the most. It’s those pictures that she likes the best as well, capturing people’s true essence, catching them unknowingly baring their souls.

She tells him anything and everything that comes to mind, knowing that he’ll listen in a way that only the dead can.

\--

She’s aware of their approach, as they’re hardly stealthy as they squelch through the mud. The rain’s all but let up now. She doesn’t turn to look at them yet, and they stop a short distance off, waiting for her cue, waiting to make sure she’s ready.

She traces the lettering one last time, before getting to her feet, shifting uncomfortably in the soaked material of her jeans. She kisses her fingers, then places them on the top of the headstone. “I miss you, Freds,” she murmurs.

“We all do,” Cook voices from just behind her, having approached when she stood.

“A lot,” Katie adds.

She turns a small smile on her two friends and sees the way that Katie’s naturally squeezing Cook’s arm a little tighter, silently supporting him at his best friend’s grave. It’s touching and beautiful in a way that makes her wish she had her camera on her. Then again, she’ll have plenty of opportunities to catch them on film next week. It’s why they’re back in Bristol, after all. Katie’s mum had insisted they hold the wedding there.

She reaches out and takes Katie’s hand, pulling her away a bit, giving Cook a chance to talk to Freddie alone.

Katie squeezes her hand and observes her with searching eyes.

“It was good to talk to him,” she informs her friend.

“Good,” Katie replies with a smile.

They close their umbrellas as the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, and she squints into it for a second, taking in the cemetery as the smell of earth after a rainstorm hits her. It’s beautiful in its own way too, the leaves of the trees glistening from the droplets of water still clinging to them, dripping slowly off, creating a grace and beauty of their own as they travel down, distorting the view through them until they splash to the ground.

Cook joins them a few minutes later, wrapping an arm around them both, pulling Katie in a little tighter and placing a kiss on her forehead. “Right, then, shall we?” he suggests.

She nods, sparing a last glance over her shoulder, before Cook guides them away. She’d like to say she’ll be back sooner next time, but she knows she can’t promise it. He doesn’t need her to anyway. Someday, though, she’ll come and catch him up again.

She carries him with her wherever she goes, anyway: the first boy she ever truly loved. She’s reached a point where it’s the fond memories that shine through, letting her smile when she thinks of him. She’s learned, in time, that the people that she loves will never really leave her. She’s learned, too, that it’s better to remember than to forget, and so she won’t ever forget, but she’ll go on, and so will life, and that, she thinks, how it’s supposed to be. 


End file.
